Circle of Jinn (28 page)

We met Chelsea in the parking lot, and she handed over her keys.

With the top down on the small two-lane road that leads out from the beach, the tall trees shield the sun and I'm almost able to forget where we're going, what I'm about to do, and what I've just done.

But once we merge onto the highway with the trucks whose ginormous tires kick pebbles in our faces, all that changes. Hemmed in by semis, SUVs, and minivans, the claustrophobia and the whipping wind make me close my eyes. And that's it. I think about everything all at once—where we're going, what I'm about to do, what I've just done, and more.

I think about what's happening to my father right now. I think about how Raina's doing, how Yasmin's feeling. I think about the pressure my mother must be under to write the spells that Nadia and Samara are convinced she can.

And being here, in Chelsea's car, with Henry, I also think about the two of them in his room, which, considering the news about Laila and Zak, really could be under some sort of love spell. I then think about Laila and Zak and how they could possibly know it's right so soon. And of course, I think about Nate, knowing I did the right thing but also wanting to take it back. And I think about wanting to talk to Henry and not wanting to talk to Henry about all of this.

Yeah, so that's our fifty-minute ride to Cambridge.

“That sign can't be right,” Henry says. “Twenty-five dollars to park? Are they crazy?” He's circled Harvard Square four times looking for a metered parking spot. The pay lot, despite its extravagant rate, is nearly full.

I lean over the tiny center console. “This is a sign.”

“No, it's not. We'll find something.”

“Come on, just drop me off. Wait for me somewhere. Like Urban Outfitters.”

Henry snorts. “Right, because I'm so the tie-dye hoodie type.”

“You never know if you don't try. Besides, I'm betting Chelsea would love it.”

His hands clench around the wheel.

“What?” I say. “You two having a fight? Can't be that big if she gave you her car.”

“Let me
borrow
her car. And no, we aren't fighting.”

On this, our fifth trip down the same street, a spot opens just as we turn the corner. Henry takes it, parallel parking in front of a wood-fired pizza place whose mouthwatering aroma is like a siren call. My stomach growls, begging to go inside.

Henry stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets, searching for change. I step out of the car and notice there's no meter for this spot. I look up and groan.

“What?” he asks.

I point above our heads. “Loading zone. For another hour.”

Henry steps back to check the sign. “Can't you … you know, change it?”

Change it? Change the sign? I look around. It is just one number. One little number that needs to tick down. No one's watching. No one's staring at the
NO PARKING
sign.

When I'm done, I back up to inspect my work and slam right into a woman in a sweat-soaked blue oxford and manly black shorts holding a computerized ticket machine.

No one's staring at the
NO PARKING
sign but her. The meter maid. Is that even what they're called anymore?

She wipes her brow with the back of her hand. “But that said … That should say … It did say—”

No, it didn't.

As easily and naturally as breathing, I make her think she didn't see a thing:
The number didn't just change before your eyes. Those have always been the loading zone hours.

She pauses, bends to yank up her white tube socks, and says, “You kids have a nice day,” before continuing down the street.

Adrenaline rushes through me, and there's a bounce in my step as I stroll beside Henry. This is
some
incredible power.

We pass a coffee shop, a dairy-free ice cream store (the horror), another coffee shop, an old-school Italian tailor, and a fancy watch store. At the end of the street, outside a too-hip clothing store that's—unfortunately for everyone—trying to bring back leg warmers, I stop.

This is some incredible
power
. One I have to be much more careful with. Yes, because I could hurt someone—maybe even myself. Though right now I don't feel any worse for having used it. I feel better. Invigorated. Which is the real reason I have to be careful.

This feeling, this high, this much
power
deserves its warning label because it could easily become addicting. It's the ultimate forbidden fruit. Each bite tempts another and another until all that's left is a rotting core. My mother said too many uses on Jinn drains an Afrit's power. How many Afrit did that happen to in order to instill restraint in the rest?

I'm betting a lot. I'm betting this power was used many times, injuring, maybe even killing both Jinn and Afrit in order to realize that this—this ability to get anyone to do anything—is too much power to have.

Even if I could use it perfectly every time, like my father seems to be able to do, I wouldn't want to. How can I take away someone's free will? Isn't that exactly what the Afrit have been doing to us?

“Azra?” Henry says. “Are you okay? If you've changed your mind, you know you don't have to do this.”

Taking away free will. Exactly what Qasim wants to do to humans.

I twirl my windswept hair into a bun and use a strand to keep it in place. “Let's go. This way, I think.”

*   *   *

The humidity makes it feel like we're walking through pea soup.

Henry's yellow T-shirt sticks to his back and sweat even drips down the nape of my neck as we stand in front of a small, single-story house half a mile outside the bustle of Harvard Square.

Squat with sky-blue shingles and black shutters flanking the double-hung windows, the house is quintessential New England. This area of Cambridge, with the Charles River a hop, skip, and a jump (across a busy road) away, has the greatest density of single-family houses in the city. And the most expensive—especially the main street we just turned off of, which is nicknamed “Tory Row” for its abundance of homes dating back to the American Revolution. Down this narrow side street, this unassuming abode was probably once a carriage house or servants' quarters.

Despite its small size, it'd probably sell for more than a million dollars. F. P. Daher must be some scholar to be able to afford to live here.

My sudden and long puff of air makes me realize I've been holding my breath.

“You have a plan, right?” Henry says.

I shrug.

“Beyond reading his mind?” He stares at me. “Why are you here? Shouldn't you at least have a cover story?”

I should. But I was too busy thinking of “other stuff.” So much other stuff.

“I'll wing it,” I say.

“Because you're so good off the cuff? Since when?”

I wipe the sweat off my neck. “I may surprise you, Carwyn.”

“You always surprise me, Nadira.”

Silence and awkward.

Henry clears his throat. “How do you even know he's home?”

“I don't.” I raise my hand to knock, but my knuckles simply hang there in midair. I give myself an order:
You can do this, Azra. No, actually, you
have
to do this, Azra.
I thrust my shoulders back and rap on the door.

“Ouch!” I jump back.

“What? What's wrong?” Henry asks.

“Nothing,” I grumble. “Just a shock.”
Really, Xavier? This is your trail of bread crumbs? You couldn't make it the tickle of a feather?

I rub my hand while we wait. No response. I'm about to knock again when the door flies open.

An old man stands before us. Hunched over with one wrinkly, sun-spotted hand resting on the rounded top of a black cane, he's wearing a cloak or a cape—
maybe a shawl?
—and a tweed cap with a short brim.

He flashes a yellow-toothed smile. “Azra, Henry, welcome.”

I stumble back and slam into Henry's chest. “But how did you…?”

“Let's go, Azra.” Henry seizes my wrist. “
Now
.”

He yanks me out of the doorway but pulls too hard and my bangle cracks open and clatters against the brick front walk.

“Excellent,” the man says. His voice is thin and raspy. He adjusts his eyeglasses, whose lenses are tinted a dark blue. “We won't have to go over that at least.” He turns and ambles back inside the house, his cane tapping against the wood floors. “Come now, don't let all the air conditioning out. Glorious invention. I'd kiss the Jinn who helped with that, wouldn't you?”

Henry's sucked in his bottom lip, shaking his head. He widens his eyes and thunks a finger against his temple.

Oh,
now
he wants me to read his mind?

Except I don't have to. I'm pretty sure he's thinking what I'm thinking.

It could be a trap. He could be … He probably
is
an Afrit.

Yup, Henry's thinking exactly what I'm thinking. But it's too late for such thoughts.

“It's okay,” I say to Henry, slipping through the doorway. “You can wait outside.”

“No way in hell,” he says, following me and shutting the door behind us.

F. P. Daher, if that's even his name, laughs a strong, hearty, full-bellied laugh. His formerly weak voice projects like he's an actor on a stage. “There happens to be no trait I value more than loyalty.”

He faces us and grins. His teeth sparkle a brilliant white. He tosses the cane on the wooden bench in the entryway. He flings off his cloak and arches his back, standing straight as a rod, erasing any hint of a hunch. Without using his hands—his smooth, golden-skinned hands—he pops his tweed cap off his head, and long, shiny black locks fall in a center part to the bottom of each ear. He gently removes his tinted eyeglasses and tucks them into the pocket of his long white tunic.

His gold eyes dance as Henry and I lose the ability to breathe, let alone speak.

A Jinn.

“Actually,” he says with a wink, “your confidant's original guess was correct.”

An Afrit.

“Indeed, but I promise you, this is not a trap. At least not yet. Whether we arrive at one, my dear Azra, will be entirely up to you.”

 

29

“Where are my manners?” the man—the Afrit—says. “I do apologize. It's been quite some time since I've had guests.” He glides through the living room and with a wave of his hand, shuts and stacks the open books scattered about on every surface, folds and stashes what looks like a dozen newspapers, and lights a fire in the fireplace, surrounded from floor to ceiling with distressed red brick that must be original to the home.

“Nothing more soothing than a fire,” he says. “The only perk of these blasted New England winters.” He tips his head toward the central air vent, certainly not original to the home. “Thank Janna for that, we can cozy up even on a day like today.”

With another sweep of his hand, two armchairs bound forward, closer to the fire and the curve-backed crimson sofa that lines the far wall. “Sit, please. What can I offer you to drink? Coffee? Tea? Port? Brandy?”

“Brandy,” Henry says.

I cock my head at him, and he holds out his trembling hand. I clasp it with my own and lead him to the sofa. “I'm good, thanks,” I say.

With a brisk nod, the Afrit busies himself at the tall hutch stocked with bottles of liquor.

“What's going on?” Henry whispers.

I shush him and then say, “He can read your mind. Try not to think of anything.”

“Try not to … How exactly am I supposed to do that?”

“Shh!”

With a click of his heels, Daher spins around. “Let's dispense with pretenses, shall we?” He sets an iced coffee in front of me and a footed brandy snifter in front of Henry. “I can read both of your minds. I can even…”

Under his breath, he mutters words I cannot make out. But when he's finished, suddenly my hand lurches forward and snatches the coffee at the same time as Henry scoops up his brandy.

“Employ hadi on you both, if I so desire.” Daher holds his hands in the air and makes a tent with his fingers. “But I won't.” We release our glasses. His powers suspend the drinks in front of us. “So long as we can be honest with one another. How does that sound?”

Paralyzed with shock and fear, Henry and I remain still. Daher isn't just an Afrit, he's on the council, or at least he was. Zak said an incantation known only to council members is required to use mind control on Jinn. I guess my half-Afrit status isn't enough to prevent it from working on me. But somehow my half-Afrit status
is
strong enough to allow me to mind-read my fellow Jinn. How is that possible?

“Come now, drink up,” he says. A brandy snifter twice as big as Henry's appears in Daher's hand. “How about a toast?”

With a deep inhale, I command my hand to move before Daher uses hadi again to make me. I seize my iced coffee and hold it high in the air, kicking Henry to get him to do the same.

The coffee smells strong. My bangle still off, held in Henry's hand, I debate using my powers to conjure sugar. But just because this Afrit knows about the spell to remove our bangles doesn't mean he knows anything else. No reason to tip my hand just yet.

Instead I manually catch Henry's drink and lower it into his hand.

“What are we toasting to?” I say, overcoming my internal panic to project a blasé air. At least I hope I do.

Daher tilts his glass toward us. “To a new day in Janna.”

A new day? Because Qasim is Chemharouch? Am I really going to drink to that?
Trying not to show any emotion, I simply tip my coffee toward him and sip. The bitter unsweetened liquid trails down my throat and I wince, forcing myself to swallow.